Watch Me Play
by oliviajxo
Summary: 'Normally, notes and scales and arpeggios would ring out from 221B Baker Street, especially at the times when Sherlock loses his voice. But not this time.  He hasn't touched the violin in such a way since this blanket of silence began.'
1. PlayPresentDayJanuary2012

**|Play|PresentDay|January2012|**

"Sherlock?"

-x-

"Sherlock."

-x-

"_Sherlock?" _

-x-

"_Sherlock."_

-x-

"_Please _Sherlock."

-x-

He says his name five times a day. At times, fives times seems excessive and yet somehow, at others, it seems like it isn't anywhere near enough.

The first time he says it, it is nothing more than a tentative question. In fact, he often has to try once, twice, three times to utter the two-syllable name. He is always ashamed of how weak his voice is on that first try, but there is nothing he can do about it; nothing ever changes. He doesn't expect a reply. He doesn't expect anything really, not anymore. He has grown used to the silence, the depression that seems to seep from every pore on the other mans' body, every piece of furniture he touches, his skin, his very being.

He doesn't really expect anything the second time he says the name either. His voice is still cautious, but he manages to stop the upward lilt at the end of the utterance. This time, if he's lucky, they'll make eye contact, but nothing else. Some days he thinks this is worse than the silence; he will be forever haunted by the look his friend gives him, the '_what are you doing here?' _Or the, '_what am __**I **__doing here?' _

The third time is a more urgent question and so what if it sounds like he is begging, it isn't beneath him. It doesn't fare him any better than the previous attempts at gaining the other mans attention, but he will not give up, he will never give up. Sherlock has lost his voice many a time and each time they find it again, be it buried inside of him or trapped inside his torturous brain. And it is torturous, his brain; it tortures its' owner and everyone around him, deducing, deducing, deducing, stripping everything down until it loses all meaning, all significance and it just dances around and around the vast chasm that is his mind.

He brings him tea this time, but the fourth time he says his name, he takes it away again, stone cold and untouched.

The fifth time is a plea: a desperate, raw plea. A plea that is left hanging in the air, unanswered and ignored. It is always late now and the only thing he can do is wrap a blanket around the taller man's slender frame, and hope that it is enough. Enough for both of them for the time being; he feels shut out and alone but he knows that Sherlock does too and as long as he's there for him when he finds his voice again then everything will be okay.

He watches him for a while then, unable to do anything else. He watches him, watching the windowsill. Some may think that he is looking out of the window, waiting for someone perhaps, but he knows different. He knows that Sherlock has nobody to wait for and what he is really looking at is the violin, propped up against the glass.

Normally, notes and scales and arpeggios would ring out from 221B Baker Street, especially at times when Sherlock loses his voice. But not this time.

He hasn't touched the violin in such a way since this blanket of silence began.


	2. Rewind18122010Play

**|Rewind|18122010|Play|**

"Christmas is like a disease. A disgusting, foul, plague that's going to take over the world. Look at them. No, really _look _at them John. They're all zombies, walking to their death- in one shop and out the other; they're on autopilot. They don't even know where they're going, they just know they have to keep moving otherwise they'll all be crushed to death by the stampedes of crazed Christmas shoppers. What's the point anyway? People going out and wasting money on things that others don't want or need, but have to smile and accept because it's _polite. _That's what Christmas has become. A disease. A _disease _John, and it's going to get us all. It has turned into another hateful holiday where people feel the need to make an effort to impress other people and- I mean look there. Look. Is that woman _trying _to send herself into an early grave? Can't you see how stressed she is? The worry lines etched into her forehead and the bags under her eyes- she's losing sleep John, just so she can come up with the perfect present for the man who works in the booth next to her at work. And you know what? He probably doesn't even care, in fact I know he doesn't care and by the looks of her face she probably knows it as well. Actually-"

"Sherlock. Enough."

John flashes the woman who now looks close to tears an apologetic smile before turning to round on the sulky looking man opposite him.

"Can you just shut up for five minutes?"

"But aren't you _listening?_" Sherlock cries, waving an arm in a way that can only be described as manic, "Where is the _meaning_? This holiday is supposed to have so much _meaning _and look! Just people, stupid, _ignorant _people, throwing money at-"

"Enough!" John says again, bringing his fist down on the wooden coffee table, "seriously, Sherlock, enough."

The worst thing is about this entire situation, is that Sherlock is right. John agrees with every single thing that the other man says, but he has a Sherlock induced headache beginning to build somewhere in the middle of his right hemisphere and if he is allowed to continue in this way then John will find himself with a Sherlock induced _migraine_ and he can not be dealing with that right now.

He closes his eyes and tries to think, tries to desperately tune out the voice that is penetrating his skull and somehow manages to bring up the mental list he has spent hours on preparing. Somewhere, Sherlock continues to rant about 'diseases' and 'zombies' and 'the _apocalypse _John, the _apocalypse!_'

_Scarf and gloves for Mrs. Hudson. Check. Violin rosin and a new magnifying glass for Sherlock. Check. A bottle of champagne for Molly. Check. _

That only leaves Harry, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mike, Dylan from the army days, Sarah… he lets out a groan as he realizes he isn't even half way through the list he has previously made.

"Do everyone a favor and give up," Sherlock snaps as if he has read John's mind, "Mycroft will most probably burn anything you give him- unless you would like to bake him a cake of course, Lestrade won't want alcohol of any kind seeing as his whole office block will buy him some sort of wine or champagne, or if he's really lucky, chocolate. In fact, do _yourself_ a favor and give the alcohol you were planning on getting for Lestrade to Harry and give… whatever it was you were going to give to Harry to Lestrade."

"A new handbag," John says bluntly.

"Fabulous," Sherlock shrugs, "we can get Lestrade back for framing that ghastly picture of me in the deer stalker. This coffee tastes like dish water."

John looks up at the last bit, and sees Sherlock staring suspiciously into the depths of his mug.

"In fact I think it probably is dishwater."

John rolls his eyes and does not even bother to reply. It is true, he hates Christmas shopping with a passion, which is why he is so willing to agree with Sherlock's 'apocalypse' analogy, but he also realizes that these people have done a lot- no, more than a lot in some cases, for him over the past years and he owes them at least a little something to say thank you. Which must be the reason why he is now sitting in a small café in the middle of London on a Saturday afternoon.

London itself is heaving; traffic blocks up the streets at every turn, the shops and department stores are positively spewing people out onto the pavement and the general hubbub of the crowds that are rushing around is quite overwhelming. John had managed to drag his reluctant flat mate out of said flat by ten o clock in the morning, which is a feat in itself, but he had started to regret it as soon as they stepped out of their taxi and onto Oxford Street.

John had given it two hours before he had grown tired of Sherlock's moaning and making insulting comments about everyone who had happened to have the misfortune to walk past them. The final straw was when Sherlock had said something particularly rude about a young woman's perfume and John had ushered him into a nearby café in hopes to put a stop to the jibes.

This plan had worked for about five minutes. Then the baby had started screaming. John had watched Sherlock's teeth clamp shut and watched as he ground his teeth together. Then it had been worse. The other man had launched into a vicious tirade about the evil of Christmas tradition (or lack of it) and how he was bored and can they _just go home? _

"We could if you would just shut up and let me think for a second," John sighs exasperatedly, picking at the paper napkin that is now lying discarded on the table. Sherlock mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, '_stupid people, wasting thoughts on shopping,_' but John makes an extra effort to ignore him.

"Come on," he says finally, pushing himself up from his chair, "we might as well actually get moving. Nothing is going to get done if we sit here all day."

He shrugs on his jacket and watches as Sherlock does the same, the lapel of his coat framing his accented facial features. They leave the warmth of the café and step onto the bustling street. The sun has already started to set, casting a distinctly unhealthy grey shadow over the city. It is icy and windy and John shivers despite himself. Sometimes he feels he will never grow used to the bite of the cold or the slap of the wind, but he soldiers on, just behind Sherlock. Sherlock, who strides ahead as if he could walk through hell, on hot coals with the devil behind him, coat billowing out in his wake, teeth set in a grim determination.

Then John realizes he's comparing Christmas shopping to Sherlock Holmes walking through hell and promptly bows his head and jogs to catch up.

-x-

"Never again."

John collapses into his armchair, dropping bags onto the floor as he falls.

"I did tell you. I did tell you several _hours ago _that you might as well give up, but did you listen? No. Honestly, you would find yourself in less of these horrible situations if you actually made note of what I said." Sherlock sits down at his desk and opens his laptop with a flourish. He squints at the screen slightly before tapping away on the keyboard. Occasionally, he will mutter unintelligibly and John just shakes his head before standing.

"Tea?"

"Hm."

"Sorry Sherlock, you'll have to speak up."

"I said yes, are you stupid? Don't answer that."

John slips his middle finger up at the back of Sherlock's head for good measure before he turns to put the kettle on.

"I saw that."

"How?" John demands, banging two mugs down on the counter, "your back was turned."

"Reflection," Sherlock replies absentmindedly, "I can see your reflection in the window. Can I have an extra sugar in my tea?"

John dumps an extra spoonful of sugar into Sherlock's mug and takes a deep breath. He repeats the mantra he has drilled into his head- _Christmas is hard for Sherlock, Christmas is hard for Sherlock, _over and over again. And he knows it is true. Growing up, he had had his family to celebrate with. It holds memories of happier times, before he had gone off to war, before things had got complicated with Harry and when his parents were still together; he cherishes these memories, brings them out in darker times and they never fail to make him smile, the image of his family sitting around the Christmas tree in their matching family jumpers.

He knows that there were probably no matching family jumpers in Sherlock's family, no sitting around the Christmas tree playing Charades or Twister and singing carols. Just him and Mycroft and their parents… and well, John doesn't know an awful lot about the senior members of the Holmes family, but one only has to look at the two brothers to guess that perhaps they hadn't had the most normal of families. Then again, he thinks, he might be completely wrong. Mr and Mrs Holmes may be looking at their two sons in despair (or joy, depending on their point of view) and thinking how on earth they managed to bring up two such… intelligent children.

He realizes he is being watched as he pours the milk into the two separate mugs. He turns, to see Sherlock watching him intently.

"What?" he asks, pushing a mug into the other man's hands.

"Have you got me a present?" Sherlock asks.

"Why would I do that?" John replies off handedly, "have you got me one?"

"Rosin!" Sherlock crows triumphantly, jumping from his crouching position in the armchair to a sitting one (John groans as the tea sloshes all over the floor- it isn't as if Sherlock will tidy it up himself.)

"Wait," he says, "what about rosin?"

"Violin rosin. Your present to me."

John _knows _there isn't any point in lying, but he does anyway.

"Wrong."

Sherlock snorts- because _really, _how dare John Watson call him _wrong. _What does that word even mean?

"You are a terrible liar," he says instead into the paper, "a terrible liar indeed."

John snatches up his tea and takes a long drink.

"Go on then, Mr. Fabulous, tell me how you got that one."

"I've been trying to figure it out all day, but you weren't paying much attention to me when we were in town so I thought I would just try and read it from your face. I knew you were stuck on a present for your sister for example, you seemed to be stressing over that one for a long time. You don't want to get her alcohol, she does want you to get her alcohol, but she's been sober for nearly half a year now and you don't want to ruin that now. But I didn't see you looking at anything you could have bought for me. You looked in the window of that fancy watch shop on Bond Street, you looked at the girls first, so, maybe a watch for your sister, then the men's, maybe for Lestrade. Just a tip, don't buy one for him; his wife is getting him one. Anyway, I have a watch; you wouldn't buy me a new one, so that wasn't for me. We looked at beauty products and handbags and unless you're even more stupid than you look then that isn't for me either. But just now, when I asked if you had got me a present, you looked over to the windowsill. What is so interesting about the windowsill you might ask, well, my violin is there, that is what's so interesting. Okay, so something for my violin. My bow has been rehaired recently and you wouldn't dream of touching my violin so an accessory. I've had the same shoulder rest for years and I wouldn't dream of getting a new one, so for the bow. Like I said, it has been rehaired recently, you know this, and you took it in for me when I was chasing that idiot who killed his sister. So I'm assuming it's violin rosin, you know I'm running low."

"You really are bored aren't you," John says, crossing his legs out in front of him and clasping his hands in his lap.

"God yes," Sherlock moans, dropping his head into his hands, "help me John, I'm suffocating. Everything goes so _quiet _around Christmas, can someone, _anyone _do something interesting?"

And that night, Sherlock Holmes got his wish.


	3. JumpTo19122010Play

**|JumpTo|19122010|Play|**

_Timothy Charles Deighton and Angela Rose Deighton have been found shot dead at their home in London in the early hours of this morning, the 19__th__ December. It appears that quite the struggle took place here and the house has been turned upside down. The bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Deighton were discovered by a friend of the family, Grace Jameson, who immediately informed the police. The 25 year old daughter of the couple, who still lived in the family home, Evelyn Freya Elizabeth Deighton is nowhere to be found. The police have got their best people on the case-_

"Well they have now," Sherlock says as the doorbell rings out around the flat, cutting off the news reporter.

"Are you going to get that?" John asks, shutting his newspaper and raising an eyebrow. "Sherlock. Doorbell."

Sherlock shows no sign of having heard either John or the doorbell and instead presses his hands together, long fingers touching at the tips. He sits there, as if in prayer leaving John to heave himself to his feet, calling,

"I'm the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, too brilliant to get off my backside to answer the door," as he goes.

Sherlock hears Lestrade before he sees him- the inspector's slightly gravelly voice and the heavy footfall of his worn shoes against the wood of the stairs. Although his steps are heavy, they are significantly lighter than Johns, a sign of a man who is always on the go, one step at a time, never placing anymore than the ball of his foot on each ledge.

"You know why I'm here Sherlock, let's not waste time with pleasantries," he says in greeting. To anybody else, it could be seen as blunt, rude even, but Sherlock is thankful. Small talk has never been his forte and never will be- he knows Lestrade is there for a reason and the reason will not be unveiled if they waste their time with pathetic hedging devices.

"You don't need me Lestrade," he says, looking straight at the older man, "you don't need my help."

"Sherlock, the daughter-"

"Is missing. So file a missing persons report, that isn't my problem. Why are you here?"

"They were shot dead, Sherlock!" Lestrade says, his voice strong as if he is scolding a small child, "shot dead, in their home and their daughter is missing. These are two of the most famous musicians of our day and they were just _shot. _We don't know who did it, we don't know _why _and for all we know, it could have been the daughter."

"What a stupid assumption," Sherlock spits, rising to his feet and looking at Lestrade as if he has just said something personally offensive.

"It's actually a perfectly sound assumption," Lestrade retaliates, "the parents are dead, the only other occupant of the household is Evelyn and she's fled the scene! Her parents might have been hiding something from her, something she wanted or-"

"It is an assumption, and therefore not sound in the slightest," Sherlock says, his bored and slightly monotonous tone back in place, "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that. I know what you're trying to do and it's not going to work."

"I don't know what you're trying to do," John pipes up from his armchair where he has been surveying the two men in slight disbelief, "and I'm still here, you know."

Sherlock turns to look at him then and begins to talk before Lestrade can even begin to process John's words.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade is trying to perform reverse psychology on me," he explains slowly, "even though he knows it won't work. He wants to pique my interest in the case." He turns back towards Lestrade now, stepping forward into his personal space, eyes flicking across his face as if speed reading a book.

"He isn't stupid," Sherlock continues, "he knows that the daughter didn't shoot her parents and he _knows _that I know that he knows which only leaves one option: he is being purposefully obtuse so I will follow him out of this flat and prove him wrong."

Lestrade takes a step back, shuddering slightly.

"I hate it when you do that," he says with a glare, "talking about me like I'm an object to be read."

"Aren't all people?" Sherlock asks with a nonchalant air.

"No, Sherlock," John answers, "No."

There is a heavy silence following John's blunt reply, and Sherlock knows he has said something that falls under the class of 'not so good' or 'inappropriate.' He shifts his gaze from one man to the other before finally heaving a dramatic sigh.

"I'll do it," he says with the tone of one who has just accepted something that with it comes a great burden, "consider it my Christmas present to you."

Lestrade smiles then, really smiles and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Oh don't look so pleased with yourself," he says drily, "if something better comes along then you're on your own."

"You should feel flattered," John tells Lestrade, "Sherlock doesn't believe in gift giving. I don't think he's got anyone else a present, so you should consider yourself special."

Lestrade left not long after, with the promise of getting in touch over the next few days.

"There's no point in going up there now," he had said, "there are so many people trying to extract whatever they can from the house that we won't be able to get a word in edgeways. I'll give you a call when things have quietened down."

Then he had taken his leave, stepping into the police car that had been waiting for him on the street outside.

Sherlock watches the car drive away, blue lights flashing as it disappears around the corner and out of sight.

"So, I guess you won't be bored anymore?" John tries, dropping his now crumpled newspaper onto the coffee table, "surely that's a good thing?"

Silence. Nothing but a silence that stretches on- John hovering awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen and Sherlock standing by the window, saying nothing and hardly moving.

"I'll just put the kettle on then, shall I?"

And that is the phrase that John seems to be using more often that not; the phrase that fixes everything, that snaps Sherlock out of his reverie when nothing else will.

"Tea," he now says, speaking slowly as if the word is brand new on his tongue, never said before, "yes."

"Or coffee?" John ventures, "coffee is always good if you're feeling a bit tired. I actually went shopping yesterday, there's a brand new jar in the cupboard."

"Tired, John?" Sherlock asks, turning to face his friend, "what gives you that idea?"

"Nothing," John replies quickly, "nothing, I didn't mean anything. Do you want that tea?"

"You said I might be feeling a bit tired… why did you say that?"

"It was nothing!" John holds his hands up in surrender, "It was just…" he trails off, looks at Sherlock and is unnerved by the lack of emotion he sees there.

"I'm not tired," Sherlock says quietly, "just thinking."

"Yeah," John agrees, unwilling for this conversation to go any further, "tea."

Truth be told, Sherlock's health is a constant worry to John, however hard he tries to deny it. It starts with the lack of sleep for days on end: one, two, three, four days, sometimes even more where the other man will dance around on a diet of caffeine and nicotine. When he isn't working on a case his eating patterns are slightly more acceptable, but there have been nights where John has left him hunched over his laptop, only to rise the next morning to find him in exactly the same position. The Doctor in him makes him want to say something, makes him want to voice his concern, anything to let Sherlock know that he _isn't alone. _But then he remembers that his words will most probably fall on deaf ears, and that it's _Sherlock, _he knows what he is doing.

He puts the kettle on as a reflex. He has made so many cups of tea in this kitchen, so many cups of coffee that he could do it with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back. Tap, water, kettle, boil. Mugs, tea bags, water, milk. Stir. It is the only thing that stays the same day in and day out. It is such a small thing, such an _irrelevant _thing, but John grasps it with both hands and holds it close. He revels in his life with Sherlock, loves the thrill of the chase, the cases, the feeling of achievement, but there are times where he needs _routine. _He believes this is what keep him grounded, what keeps him human and it saddens him that Sherlock finds repetitiveness tiresome. He sighs. Living with Sherlock is like nothing he had ever imagined and like nothing he will ever imagine again.

Behind him, the silence is broken and the violin begins to play.


	4. JumpTo22122010Play

**|JumpTo|22122010|Play|**

John doesn't see a lot of Sherlock over the next couple of days- in fact, he hardly sees him at all.

It starts the day after Lestrade makes his appearance at 221B Baker Street informing them of the case, the _murder_, and asking for Sherlock's help. Sherlock is off that very same evening, sneaking down the stairs and out of the door whilst John is busy putting away the shopping from that day. The only goodbye he receives is the sound of the door slamming shut, causing him to stop midsentence and hurry out into the living room just to make sure that none of their possessions have suffered the consequences of a bored and out of control Sherlock Holmes. On discovering an empty flat, John had called out to Sherlock, but received no answer (_and really, _he thinks to himself, _he should just take up talking to himself. He would probably have a much more enlightening conversation.)_

John doesn't know where the other man disappears off to and he hasn't had a chance to ask. He is normally asleep when Sherlock both leaves and arrives back home, the sound of another person tiptoeing around the apartment occasionally worms its way into his dreams making him sit bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily, an unexplained feeling of unease seeping through him. The first time this happened, he had called out into the darkness, refusing to lie back down until his door had creaked open and a familiar face had appeared in the crack between the door and the wall.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Sherlock says softly, his deep voice sounding oddly soothing in the blackness of the room, "go back to sleep."

And John does, almost immediately- as soon as his head hits the pillow he is dead to the world and when the morning comes around, he can barely recall waking up at all.

Now, he just ignores it when Sherlock arrives home at an entirely unsociable hour and tries to sleep through it. If he does wake, then he simply lies on his back, staring at the ceiling listening to the soft 'clinks' of cutlery and plates in the kitchen, footsteps muffled by carpet and socks. Part of him wants to rise, to go out there and interrogate the other man, insist on answers to questions and explanations to queries. But he doesn't. He stays where he is, only letting go of a breath he doesn't realise he has been holding when the footsteps retreat into the bedroom and the silence follows. That is what Sherlock Holmes has become; footsteps in the dark, shadows in the night and faces in the first light of day.

"Do you know where he's vanishing off to?" he asks Mrs. Hudson one morning over tea and toast and newspapers. Mrs. Hudson is sitting in Sherlock's usual chair, but of course the man has already left, leaving John to dine alone with his landlady.

"Not a clue Dear," she says cheerfully, "but it's Sherlock. I wouldn't worry about him."

"I'm not worried, who said I was worried?" John says then in a rush, caught off guard. Because why do people always _assume _that he's worried about Sherlock? He's a grown man and can look after himself, he doesn't need John hovering over him like an over protective parent.

"He doesn't need me," he says out loud, "he's fine."

"Oh Love…" Mrs. Hudson says with pity in her voice, "he'll stop being so silly in a few days. It's nearly Christmas after all! He wouldn't leave us at Christmas! I've got a lovely Santa hat for him to wear this year, a lovely red colour to go with the elf hat I got you."

She grins at him from across the table with a delicate giggle, like she has just told him that she has bought him the world and he can't help but smile.

"An elf hat… right, thank you Mrs. H. That's very thoughtful of you."

She pats his hand and stands to fetch a dust cloth and some cleaning fluids.

"Don't worry about Sherlock dear," she says again, "when he needs you, he'll come back to you."

John knows this, he knows that she's right and he knows that he's worrying about someone who doesn't want to be worried about, but he can't help himself.

"It's not healthy you know," he calls after Mrs. Hudson as she brushes dust from the mantle piece, "the lack of sleep, the lack of food… the way he closes in on himself."

"He's Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson replies, "he does these things."

"That has to stop being an excuse!" John says, dropping his toast onto his plate with a sigh, "so what, he's Sherlock Holmes. He's still human. He isn't invincible and the sooner he realises that the better. He's just- oh I don't know." He trails off with a shake of his head and waves his hand around in a manner that is vaguely meant to portray his uncertainty. If there is one thing he despises, it is being uncertain. Doubt got him nowhere in Afghanistan, each decision had to be made there and then to save the people around him, to save himself. He feels like he always has to be sure: sure of each move, thought, idea that comes into his head and he knows that it isn't 100% healthy to live like that, but Sherlock bases too much of his life on impulse and he _needs _John; they need each other, so each can balance out the other. Life is better this way.

"Why don't you go out and have a nice day to yourself," Mrs. Hudson tells him, "I'll tidy up here. Just this once."

"Really? I don't mind helping out, I mean, I've got nothing else to do."

"I insist dear. But just remember I'm-"

"… not our housekeeper, I know Mrs. H, I know."

John takes his leave, stopping to give his landlady a peck on the cheek as he goes. He shrugs on his jacket and steps out onto the street, leaving the hectic life he has come to know behind him.

-x-

He's been sitting here for days now, watches the sun rise and set just beyond the windows, the yellow glow the only light he is exposed to as the days go by. He tries not to leave at the same time twice; only too aware he could be missing something important in his absence. He lets himself get lost in the silence, allows himself to be transported away by his thoughts, only coming back to reality if disturbed by a noise, a movement. He stays in the shadows, watching the people move around him, sorting through the detritus and the chaos.

He can afford to smile, if only to himself, a smile that mocks the norm, the typical; he is better than them, so much better. He can see, _see _things, observe them in such detail, read them like words on a page jumping out at him. Instead of the upturned desk he sees letters, a story,

_Pushed, tripped: someone was pushed into it, violently _so violently, _so hard it tipped over. They stumbled towards it, but trip over the wooden frame, land hard on it. Gun shot. Ceiling. Chandelier. Bullet bounces off the light, plummets back towards the floor-_

He rubs his hands over his lower face, tips his head back so the light bounces off the tops of his cheekbones, giving his face an almost hollow effect, virtually ethereal. His dark hair falls to one side, and he runs long fingers through it taking a deep breath. He coughs then, the unsettled dust irritating his lungs.

He could sit here for hours, waiting, watching, and expecting the unexpected. It gives him time to think and evaluate, look at the facts that have already been dismissed and overlooked, seen as unimportant. He knows better.

_Thrown, used as defence, destroyed, _a chair screams at him from across the room. The furniture is _talking to him _it's _screaming, begging _and it makes him groan in pain, the sounds of a terrible occurrence unfurling in his mind. He grabs at his hair, great tufts of it, curls it up in his fingers, because it _hurts _and he has to discover what is being hidden here.

So he waits. Barely breathing, barely moving. Just thinking.


	5. JumpTo25122010Play

**|JumpTo|25122010|Play**

John hates himself for feeling so surprised when he sees Sherlock sat in his seat at the dining table, newspapers spread open across the surface in front of him. He feels even worse when he notices the fresh cup of coffee by his own plate, still sending a plume of coffee bean scented steam into the air. He spies the rack full of toast in the middle of the table and smiles; it had been a house warming gift from his sister, the garish colours have always looked so out of place amongst the rest of their belongings, but John has never quite been able to throw it away.

"_Sentiment_," Sherlock had snarled upon laying eyes on it and when John had already fished it out of their rubbish bin several times. However, nothing more was said on the matter after Sherlock's most recent experiment at that time had joined the toast rack in the black plastic bag and after salvaging the research (and the toast rack) Sherlock had grudgingly agreed to let it remain in their household.

So it baffles John to see the toast rack on such blatant display- Sherlock occasionally does make breakfast, but rarely for them both and if he does, it is normally for John. Sherlock himself rarely eats while he's working on a case, but he knows that John likes a good breakfast to start the day. Then again, John isn't sure if Sherlock actually _is _working on a case- Lestrade hasn't yet been in touch with the detective since his visit a few days prior, but Sherlock has stopped his complaints of boredom and so John assumes he has found something else to entertain himself.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he says as he takes his place at the table and reaches out to take two slices of toast.

"Why? I live here."

Sherlock sounds defensive, insulted and John shakes his head in an attempt to amend his words.

"You haven't been around a lot, you know you haven't. I half expected you to disappear off today."

"Oh," Sherlock replies, looking genuinely perplexed, "would you like me to go?"

"No!" John says hurriedly, "no. I just... Well." he shrugs, unable to find the right words to convey his thoughts. He settles on a small smile and, "Merry Christmas Sherlock."

There is a tense silence whilst Sherlock eyes him up with an air of suspicion and mistrust.

"Merry Christmas John," he says at last, tearing his eyes away and focusing on the paper in front of him.

Mrs. Hudson choses that moment to knock on the door, her friendly '_woohoo_!' sounding slightly more upbeat than usual.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says as the door opens and he stands to greet the older woman, stooping to brush his lips against her cheek, making her blush and giggle all at once.

"Don't simper Mrs. Hudson, it is so terribly unbecoming of you," he scolds her, turning back to John with a roll of his eyes.

"It's Christmas, Sherlock," John reminds him with a gleeful smirk, "you have to be nice today. Take a day off from being the insufferable know it all we've come to know and-"

"Oh shut up John," Sherlock replies haughtily, narrowing his eyes at the other man.

"Boys, boys," Mrs. Hudson says quickly, "come and help me put these presents under the tree. There are too many for me to manage on my own."

John complies at once, almost falling over his feet to help Mrs. Hudson with the packages. He looks at Sherlock and he knows that whilst he sees gifts, acts of kindness on the part of others, the other man isn't looking at the gold and silver wrapping paper, the red and green ribbons, but looking beyond it; at the gifts within. Sherlock doesn't notice John watching him and the latter notices how pained the other man appears to be... Tortured even. Like he wants to only see the loopy handwriting of their friends, instead of the shapes and clues as to what might be inside.

"Sherlock," he says quietly, but firmly, "come and help."

The change is instant once he knows he is being watched; Sherlock is like an entirely different being, eyes bright and smile brighter as he bounds over to where John and Mrs. Hudson are, snatching up the gift from the top of the bag and giving it a tiny shake before laying it gently amongst the others.

_Christmas is hard for Sherlock_, John reminds himself with a shake of the head, _Christmas is hard._

"When are all your friends arriving dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks, smiling up at John with kind eyes, "I've already started cooking the turkey and the vegetables can go in the oven at any time, the puddings are-"

" Mrs. Hudson!" John exclaims, "You didn't have to do so much!"

Mrs. Hudson pats him on the arm:

"It's Christmas John, of course I had to! Don't be so silly."

John shakes his head and can't help but feel slightly guilty as he lays eyes on the small and slightly meagre looking parcel under the tree which contain the small gifts he has purchased for his landlady.

"The cupboard under the sink."

John turns his gaze from where Mrs. Hudson is bustling back down the stairs to look at Sherlock who is still sat on the floor, holding a particularly shiny looking present, long legs crossed underneath him, his blue dressing gown pooled out around him.

"What?"

"The cupboard under the sink," Sherlock repeats, "didn't you hear me?"

"What's in there?" John asks, moving into the kitchen, "Don't tell me there's a severed dog head or something, because I'm really not in the mood- oh."

He drops down to a squatting position, pausing as he spots the only things his friend could be referring to. He reaches out an arm to gather the items that are piled up against the back of the wall.

"But… these are presents." John says lamely, "_Presents_, Sherlock."

"Well observed," comes Sherlock's dry reply, as he drops into his armchair and strums at the D string of his violin with a long thumb.

"How did they get here?"

"I imagine," Sherlock says exasperatedly, moving on to the E string, A string, back to the D string, "that someone went out and bought them, then proceeded to wrap them up and put them into that cupboard for safe keeping. Just a guess though- make of it what you will."

"You put them here!" John realises at once, "who are they for?"

As soon as the question is out of his mouth he notices the white labels that have been carefully stuck onto each individual package. He squints to read Sherlock's print.

"You bought presents. _You _bought- for Mrs. Hudson. _Two _for Mrs. Hudson. And… and for me. You got a present for me."

"I knew she would cook for us and I knew you would feel guilty. I also knew that you would mope around like a teenaged girl feeling terribly guilty and sorry for yourself if you only had one gift to give her. So I thought I had better do something about it, for entirely selfish reasons you understand. I even wrapped it in lilac wrapping paper, do you know how demeaning that is?"

Sherlock is staring at him with accusing eyes and John cringes slightly.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He says and he means it; he genuinely means it because Sherlock is always one step ahead of him even when John thinks he's got everything covered.

"Put them under the tree," Sherlock says, "your sister will get awfully upset if we start opening presents without her. I'm going to get dressed."

He leaves, just like that, sweeping from the room in a whirl of blue silk and striped pyjamas; the violin and bow that are placed carefully on the table are the only evidence the other man has been in the room at all.

-x-

Dinner is a delightful affair in John's eyes, surrounded by family and friends with good food and plenty of wine and champagne to go around, keeping the conversation flowing and laughter bubbling. Sherlock is clearly uncomfortable with the amount of people around the table, his smile more a grimace than anything else, but even he has managed to keep his mouth shut and so far, he hasn't offended anyone too badly. (Although he knows that Harry is going to corner him for a 'chat' later on whether he likes it or not, even though it hadn't been _his _fault that Sherlock had brought up the fact that everyone thought he was gay… and _that_ wasn't his fault either.

"Tell me about my brother's love life Sherlock," she had gushed after her second glass of wine, "he never tells me anything about it! I want details!"

"John's love life is pointless trivia," Sherlock had said without pausing for even a beat, "they all go the same way- he flirts shamelessly, they pity him and agree to go out for dinner, he says or does something wrong and then they accuse him of being gay and go their separate ways."

"They _what?" _Harry had squealed, and John had dropped his head onto the table, face narrowly missing the trifle.)

Now they are all gathered by the tree: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Harry and Mrs. Turner from next door. Lestrade is spending Christmas with family this year and Molly has stated that she would rather spend it with 'the Baker Street Crew' as she has christened them all than travel up to her sisters.

"Don't you have a brother?" Harry had asked Sherlock, ignoring the warning glares from John, "Where is he?"

"I don't have a brother," Sherlock had answered, "I have an interfering, medalling pain in the-"

"Mycroft," Molly had butted in, "he's called Mycroft. He's always quite busy around Christmas isn't he Sherlock?"

"No." Sherlock replies bluntly.

"Busy," Molly repeats flushing bright red, "really busy. With, um, friends. Maybe. Yes. Busy though, otherwise he would be here, he's just so busy and-"

"Presents!" John exclaims, almost tripping over a chair in his haste to get to the Christmas tree, "presents!"

They open their gifts all together, making all the right noises of gratitude and thanks. John takes it upon himself to cut across Sherlock every time he opens his mouth to speak, so desperate to keep up the pleasant mood and the cheerful buzz in the air.

Sherlock excuses himself not long after that, claiming he wishes to see his brother despite his earlier protests about the other man before the night is out. He leaves, head bowed against the snow and the wind and John watches him go, wondering where on earth he could be disappearing off to now.

It is only when John receives a text from Mycroft wishing them Merry Christmas that he realises that Sherlock has still not returned.

-x-

The house is empty. Dark, miserable and empty.

Sherlock takes a moment to take in his surroundings; nothing has changed. He is sorry for leaving his friends at such a time, but the mindless chatter had become too much for him. So he had left and some may see it as running away, but it isn't, he tells himself, it isn't. He isn't running. Nothing like that in the slightest.

He shakes his head to clear these thoughts; he needs an empty head, a clean slate before he can move forward. And then he does. Opens the door, and steps inside.


	6. Rewind22122010Play

|Rewind|22122010|Play|

He waits for her that afternoon; hangs around like some kind of ominous cloud outside the building. He probably doesn't look very ominous, but he feels uncomfortable standing there, on his own and he gets so many strange looks after the second hour of waiting that he decides he should probably leave, (at least for a little while), so he goes to buy a coffee from the cafe round the corner.

Eventually and after a brief moment of internal conflict ("Go in there." "What if she's not there?" "You won't know if you don't go." "I'm nervous." "You've jumped across roofs, been shot in the shoulder, had an explosive jacket strapped to your chest; John Watson, you get in there now."), he decides to stop hanging around like an unpleasant smell and do something to silence the angel and the devil that seem to be resting on his shoulders.

He tosses his coffee cup into a nearby bin and strides into the hospital, head held high, and his gait still slightly stiff, as it always is when he is placed into situations that have the potential to make him squirm or feel even remotely uncomfortable.

"Hi," he greets the receptionist; someone new, he doesn't recognise him. That shouldn't be a surprise, he hasn't worked at the surgery for well over a year and he knows that the various receptionists come and go, seemingly as they please.

"Hello Sir," the receptionist says with a wide smile, far too wide to possibly be real, "how can I help you? Are you here for an appointment?"

"Um, no, actually I was just- is Sarah in?" John asks, placing both hands flat on the desk in front of him.

"Sarah..." the receptionist looks confused, and John watches him click a few buttons on the computer keyboard.

"Doctor Sawyer," John amends, "Sarah Sawyer. Is she in?"

"Oh!" the receptionist exclaims, "No, sorry sir, it's her day off, were you here for an appointment?"

John stands there for a couple of seconds, fairly certain his mouth is hanging open like some kind of disabled goldfish, but he manages to pull himself together and smiles a strained smile.

"No," he says, sounding slightly more blunt than he intends, "Thanks anyway."

Then he leaves, power walking out of the surgery as if his legs are on fire, not looking behind him once.

-x-

He rings the doorbell straight away, scolding himself for being so stupid the first time. He has already wasted the majority of his morning and he really can't afford to waste anymore time, just in case Sherlock decides to make a sudden appearance back at the flat; an event that is unlikely, yet still remains entirely possible.

Sarah answers almost immediately, face lighting up considerably when she sees him.

"John!" she exclaims, taking them both by surprise when she embraces him in a hug, "what are you doing here? Come on, get inside and out of the cold."

She opens the door wider, letting him step over the threshold and into her home, shutting it quickly behind him in an attempt to keep the biting December wind outside.

"Your day off!" he blurts out as soon as the door shuts behind him, "you never have days off! Two hours I waited at the practice, hoping you would come out, but when I went in they said you weren't there!"

She bursts out laughing then, and he joins her, feeling any ice that may have been between them melting away as they laugh together.

"I was just about to make some lunch," she says finally, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, "Nothing fancy, just a salad or something, but I could put some chicken in it. You can eat here if you like."

John opens his mouth to decline, to apologise for intruding and he can come back another time, it's really no trouble, but what actually comes out is-

"I'd love to. Thank you."

So that's how they find themselves sitting in Sarah's kitchen, eating chicken salad and laughing about 'the old times.'

"I've missed you, you know," Sarah says fondly, looking at John like she wants to ruffle his hair or something else equally ridiculous, "you always used to make me laugh."

"Used to?" asks John in mock offence, "where did I go wrong?"

Sarah gives him a playful swat on the arm, almost sending his bowl flying from his grip.

"You know what I mean," she tells him, "I always had a laugh when I was with you... If you don't count the time when I nearly got killed because they thought you were your estranged flat mate, or the time-"

"Okay, okay," John says, "so it wasn't always a barrel of laughs. But we had fun, didn't we?"

Sarah nods and this seems like the perfect time to carry out his plan, ask the question he came here to ask-

"So, you um, you're, um, are you, you know, seeing anyone at the moment?"

And _shit_ because that had sounded so much smoother in his head.

"I'm not seeing anyone," Sarah says matter-of-factly, "I don't think anyone can really compare after you. The average date seems boring now. I've become terribly hard to please."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not," John says, rubbing a hand over his chin and putting his plate aside, "anyway, it's not me- it's Sherlock. I'm terribly boring, I like reading newspapers and watching daytime telly. You know, I go off to fight the occasional war but that's about it, the rest of the 'exciting' element is all Sherlock."

Sarah raises her eyebrows at him and John splutters.

"What? Don't look at me like that, it is all Sherlock, I was just an innocent... Soldier turned civilian looking for somewhere to live and I got landed with him. Somewhere along the line _I_ drew the short straw."

"You say that, but you don't mean it," Sarah tells him, "I must admit, I found myself warming to him even though he only ever spoke about 10 words to me over the course of our relationship. Sure, he was frightfully rude, but once you learnt not to take it personally..."

"Yeah, once you get over the fact that he's not calling _you _an idiot, but the whole of the human race-"

"Does he still do that?" Sarah asks, "I thought I was special."

"Of course he still does it," John snorts, "he's not about to change any time soon. Anyway, it would be weird if he did."

Sarah smiles knowingly, and John doesn't like the look of where the conversation is heading- that look always means one thing.

"He is my _friend_!" he exclaims, "my _friend._ Possibly my best friend, but that's it. Yes, I care for him, of course I do, I think everyone does in his or her weird ways. But that's it Sarah, that's it. You know I actually came here to ask if you had any plans for New Years Eve."

Sarah laughs once again, before the last part of John's statement catches up with her.

"John…"

"Look, I'm just asking you, give me another chance. I'm not begging you; I'm not being… whatever. I just thought I might as well ask."

Sarah reaches over the table and for a moment, it looks as though she is about to put her hand over his, a gesture of the affection they both felt once, could feel again, but at the last moment she moves it to the side and takes up his empty bowl and placing it in hers.

"I can't keep up with that lifestyle," she says quietly, standing to take the crockery to the sink, "it was too much John."

"Look," John says, "one date. You and me on New Years Eve. We'll go out for dinner; just us, we can watch the fireworks at then just… I don't know. It'll be good."

Sarah looks thoughtful, turning to lean against the counter. She crosses her arms around her middle and cocks her head to one side. She's beautiful, John thinks, her pale complexion and tawny hair framing her face.

"Okay," she says, letting her arms fall down by her sides, "I'll go with you. But-" she raises an eyebrow now, looks almost stern, "If anything happens, that's it. It's just not fair on me and in the end it isn't far on you either."

John considers this, thinks about if it is fair. At last, he sighs.

"Agreed."

-x-

John breaks the news to Sherlock after dinner.

He doesn't really want to tell him, not now when they have just sat down together for the first time in so long and eaten a proper meal, but he wants to get it over with. Sherlock actually has a clean plate for once, a rarity at the best of times and John hates to ruin the mood.

"That was actually… _nice_," Sherlock is saying, putting his knife and fork together and pushing his empty dish away from him, "Really nice!"

"Oh, I'll let the guys at the Indian place know," John replies offhandedly, "listen Sherlock-"

"Anyway, I've been thinking, Lestrade hasn't come back to us with any news on that case. He's probably forgotten, can you give him a call?"

"He's at his parents' house I think, with his family. Anyway, Sher-"

"What's he doing there?" Sherlock asks, sounding genuinely quite disgusted, "he said he would get back to me! Well, I suppose we'll have to take matters into our own hands. Listen, whatever the killer was looking for, he didn't find it. He? Yes, _he. _Footprints. I found footprints at the crime scene, male, size ten feet; I'd say he was older as well, not young- maybe mid forties? I haven't got any actual evidence to prove that yet, because I haven't been allowed to look at any of the items in much detail, but from the way he moved around and-"

"Sherlock, can you listen to me?" John starts, then furrows his brow; "Wait, what do you mean? Lestrade never got back to us, how did you get onto the crime scene?"

"Anyone can walk into anywhere if they pick the right moment," Sherlock says gravely.

"Christmas," John realises, "you were there at Christmas!"

"Yes…" Sherlock says in a tone that only too clearly implies, _are you stupid_?

"Listen Sherlock," John says, but once again Sherlock cuts across him.

"Oh yes, this news. I hope it isn't anything trivial, we might be onto something here."

"Sarah and I… the doctor," he adds at Sherlock's confused expression, "we're giving it another go. We're going out for dinner on New Years Eve and that means… that means I'll be out of the flat then."

"But you broke up. _She_ broke up with you- sensible girl, why are you going out with her again?"

"It's called a second chance, Sherlock."

"Stupid idea," Sherlock scoffs, "well you can't possibly go; I need your help on this case."

"Sorry, its already been arranged," John says. He is sorry, but he hates the way Sherlock continues to order him around- you can't do this, that or the other. He is tired of it; he just wants this night to himself, him and Sarah and Sherlock Holmes is not going to stand in the way of it.

"Fine," Sherlock says, "fine."

He leaves the room then, strides from the room. John hears a door slamming somewhere in the depths of the flat, making the artwork on the walls rattle.

"_Shit,_" John groans, putting his head in his hands. He knows that Sherlock will have nowhere to go, have nobody to stay in with, and he feels horrific. He doesn't want Sherlock to spend New Years on his own, but…

But _really_ he thinks forcefully, he isn't the other man's babysitter. It isn't his fault, it isn't, it isn't. He just wants a night out, a night to let go- a night away from it all. But he feels awful, _unbelievably _awful and he vows that he'll make it up to his friend; his friend who will pretend not to care, but who will be the one who suffers.


	7. FastForward01012011Play

**|FastForward|01012011|Play|**

The fireworks are absolutely phenomenal. They explode, fly, wheel across the indigo sky sending sparks and colours dancing as far as the eye can see.

"_Beautiful_," Sarah breathes. Her voice goes unheard by everyone, but she feels John's arm tighten around her shoulders and she smiles.

They have had an enchanting evening; dinner had been delicious, completely delightful and conversation had been easy; so full of anecdotes and jokes, laughter and chatter about anything and everything. John had remembered Sarah's preference for Italian food and had booked them a table for two at _Strada_, one of her favourite restaurants. There, they had taken their time, had eaten at their own pace and revelled in the feeling of being completely at ease in each other's company. So many other people, all out to celebrate the turn of the New Year, had surrounded them but they let the constant murmur of chatter go straight over their heads.

Their next stop had been the London Eye and they had made their way slowly along the Southbank, hand in hand towards their destination, desperate to get as close as they possibly could to the firework display.

It is cold, _so_ cold, but the display has taken their breath away and they can no longer feel the bite of the wind, the chill in the air. With each firework, the colours grow more and more extravagant, spiralling seemingly out of control.

It has taken John a while to stop flinching at the cracks and the bangs, the noises so reminiscent of those from the war zone, but once he is able to relax, he allows his eyes to dance after the dazzling oranges, yellows, pinks, the music blaring out from the speakers overhead. He nods his head and taps his foot to the beat and let's himself simply be transported away.

"That was amazing," Sarah tells him once it is finished, "absolutely amazing."

He kisses her then- just a light brush of his lips against hers and her arms wind around his neck. She smiles against his mouth before pulling away.

"Kissing on the first date?" she asks in a wry tone, "tut tut John Watson, never would have put you down for someone who did that."

"It isn't our first date," John points out, "more like our... 50th."

She laughs and takes his hand.

-x-

_3 Hours Earlier_

It hasn't taken him long to unscrew all four legs and shift the main bed frame into the living room. In fact, it takes more pain than it does time: he knocks his funny bone against the door, stubs his toe on the chest of drawers and manages to prick his finger on a protruding screw. They are all setbacks; nothing major, but all adding to the seconds he is wasting of his valuable time.

He looks down at his handiwork with a proud air about his being: hands on his hips, dark hair slightly damp with perspiration and his breathing is heavy. But finally, he is ready.

A chair, a small table and now a bed have been placed in a row in the centre of the room, on top of the plastic sheets that have been laid out across the floor and draped over the furniture. Dustsheets have been hung over the curtains and Sherlock stands before them in safety goggles and an oversized science overall. He is already brandishing a feather duster in one hand, but his other hand remains empty.

"Right..." he says to the empty room, "_come on_."

He manages to shred the majority of the bed before Mrs. Hudson comes bursting in through the door.

"Goodness grief Sherlock, _what are you doing_?" she cries in dismay. Sherlock sighs the sigh of an important man interrupted before poking at the ever growing pile of sawdust and covering his mouth with his forearm as plumes of miniscule wood particles get catapulted into the air.

"Woodworm." Sherlock bellows over the sound of the shredder, as if he is merely stating the time in a very loud voice, "they're completely destroying the furniture. I'm simply getting rid of them."

Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway, looking as though she is torn between strangling the man in front of her and fainting from the amount of dust that is swirling around the room.

"Woodworm!" Sherlock exclaims as he leaps around with his arms outstretched, giving off a rather impressive impression of a mad scientist, the goggles still perched upon his nose and his overall swirling around his body like a cloak.

"You stop this racket and clear up this mess right now young man and then you can come downstairs. You can buy a new bed using your rent money," Mrs. Hudson tells him. Her voice is dangerously stern and she turns on her heel and storms from the room.

Sherlock sighs yet again; there goes another perfectly sound, _in control_ experiment, ruined by the ignorance of another human being.

-x-

It all starts going wrong at around 2am. They have just passed Regents Park and have made their way onto Marylebone Road, the road that runs perpendicular to Baker Street, when they hear the shout.

"John!" Sarah cries, pointing to the other side of the street.

John hears the _thwack_ of the suitcase hitting the floor, the scream of pain and the shouts of the men before he sees anything. When his eyes finally do focus in the dark, he is met with the vision of two- no, _three_ men advancing on a young woman. She is sprawled on the ground, a thick, red substance matting her hair together; the case on the ground is stained with the same colour.

"Hey!" he shouts, before sprinting across the road. He runs, stooping slightly and grunts as his shoulder connects with the stomach of one of the men. They both topple to the ground, one on top of the other and he is vaguely aware of someone sobbing, crying, begging for help, but there is nothing he can do from down here; his shoulder hurts, his head hurts but there's someone standing over him-

"John! He's got a knife!"

He rolls to the left and springs to his feet as the man above him lunges downwards. Sure enough, a blade glints in the moonlight and John leaps backwards out of harms way. He feels the _swoosh_ of the knife as it cuts through the air, narrowly missing his thigh and he curses- whether he speaks out loud or in his head he doesn't know. Everything seems to be happening so fast, he doesn't even have time to think.

The man stumbles and trips, heavy on his feet and even heavier on his face as he falls with an undignified 'thump' and crumples into a heap.

"Back off!" John shouts at where he thinks the other two men are standing, hovering in the darkness, waiting for their turn to strike.

Pain explodes from somewhere, _everywhere_ on his face and hot liquid spurts down his chin, dripping onto the stone below. He staggers backwards, slumping against a lamppost, hands grabbing at his face, desperately trying to locate the source of the bleeding, knowing he needs to stop the flow, has to-

Another thump and another strangled sob brings him back to reality before two figures storm past him.

"They're getting away!" Sarah cries, but then she's by his side, crouching down beside him, hand gently pressing against his nose.

"Hold still," she soothes, "it isn't broken. Don't tip your head too far back, you'll choke- here."

Something soft is being pressed against his nose, a scarf, and he realises- Sarah's scarf. But there was-

"A girl!" he slurs, heaving himself to his feet, "girl..."

He sees her, her body pressed up against the wall, arms hugging her knees, her belongings strewn over the street.

"Are you okay?" he asks through layers of fabric, scarf still soaking up the blood, "Are you hurt?"

She looks at him with terrified eyes, but then her gaze shifts to something beyond him, something on the floor.

"Broken," she stammers, "it's… it's broken. Don't _touch me_!"

She tries desperately to pull away, straining against John's grip as he attempts to help her to her feet. She's injured, has a rather severe head injury from the look of the blood dripping from her hairline and into her eyes, across her face and dribbling down her neck and she sways, her feet unsteady and vision blurred. John gestures for Sarah to help him and together they manage to help the girl to her feet, holding her up between them.

"Can you walk?" Sarah asks.

The girl begins to nod, but then her vision goes clouded-

"Broken," she gasps, before collapsing into their arms.

"Baker Street," John says, still trying to staunch the stream of blood coming from his nostrils, "Come on!"

-x-

"Sherlock!"

John calls out to his flatmate frantically, but the house is seemingly empty. He helps Sarah get the injured girl up the stairs before barking out orders for someone, _anyone_ to call an ambulance, and then he descends the stairs once more.

He pauses once he reaches the bottom and strains his ears for any sound of life. His nose has stopped bleeding now, but the pain is starting to kick in. He clutches at Sarah's scarf, twists it round and round his fingers, desperate to stay focused. There is music coming from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, he suddenly notices with a hint of surprise and so he totters to the door and raps on it with his knuckles.

"Woo hoo!" comes a cheerful voice from within, "it's open!"

John pushes open the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he gasps, "do you know where Sh-"

He stops dead at the sight before him.

Mrs. Hudson is stirring something in a large mixing bowl and Sherlock... Sherlock is wearing safety goggles, a lab coat, a kitchen apron and- and bright pink oven gloves. Flour peppers his dark hair and he has a smear of icing atop one prominent cheekbone.

"We're baking," he says in terms of explanation, "I can tell you've got news. Did you know you've got blood all over your face? Honestly, are you people dressing up for New Years Eve now? I thought it was Halloween you did that. Either way, you might want to wash up, I don't think Sarah or Tina or whichever one of your girlfriends you're going out with will appreciate it."

"Sherlock!" John says urgently, "We need you upstairs! There was an attack!"

Sherlock drops the wooden spoon he has been holding and turns to look at his friend.

"An attack?"

"Yes!"

"Anyone hurt?"

"Yes! Does the blood on my shirt mean nothing to you?"

Sherlock's face falls and John tries not to feel offended.

"Anyone else?" Sherlock asks sounding… it takes John a second to recognise the tone, but yes, his friend definitely sounds hopeful.

"Come upstairs," he says, "there _was_ someone else. A girl… woman. Womangirl."

He leads the way up the stairs, each one creaking more than the last and he pushes open the door to their flat with a shaking hand. It _is_ shaking, he notices and briefly wonders why. Adrenaline, perhaps. Pain.

"Put her in my bed," John says to Sarah, who has laid out the fourth member of the room on the sofa, "We need to keep her comfortable. Although we probably shouldn't move her anymore, we don't know how bad the wound is, she might be concussed or something. There's a lot of blood, a lot of…" he sways suddenly and puts out both hands to try and regain his balance. Sarah leads him to his armchair and helps him to carefully sit down.

"You shouldn't be moving either," she tells him, "stay there. Doctor's orders."

"But…" John starts, "you should help her to my room."

"Ah," Sherlock says, walking purposefully over to the unconscious girl, "not possible, I'm afraid."

"What are you talking about?" John asks, brow furrowing in confusion, "My room makes sense, it's closer. Just put her in my bed, it'll be more comfortable for her."

"You can't," Sherlock says, "for one thing, my room is closer and not yours. And another thing… it just isn't a good idea."

Sherlock is not looking at John as he speaks and instead focuses his attention on his patient.

"Why not?" John asks, getting to his feet and walking carefully up the stairs and towards his bedroom, "it's my bed, surely I can- oh Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Where the hell is my bed?"

"Over there," Sherlock says in a monotone, giving no indication of _where_ said bed is, and instead running long fingers over the girls head. John is left to scan the room in disbelief.

"Oh bloody hell, Sherlock it that... That's... Did you _set fire to my bed_?"

"Woodworm," Sherlock says, "and I didn't set fire to it, I put it through the shredder- are you blind?"

"Woodworm." John exclaims, "Bloody woodworm! Oh, of course. Why couldn't you have burnt your own bed instead of rendering mine to a pile of useless ash?"

"Why on earth would I set fire to my own bed?" Sherlock asks in a tone that suggests he simply doesn't _care _for what the other man has to say, let alone the fact that John looks like he is dead set on murdering his flatmate. Instead, he simply says,

"It's sawdust, not ash. Now please do be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate."

"I called an ambulance," Sarah says, "It should be on its way."

"And when I said be quiet, I meant everyone and not just John."

Sherlock has removed the stranger parts of his attire and is now kneeling by the sofa in only his suit and socks, swift fingers still skimming over the head of the unconscious body.

"No serious head wound…" he murmurs, almost to himself, "it's just superficial, a lot of blood. The cut isn't deep, the aim wasn't hard enough to knock her out, let alone cause any serious or permanent damage."

"But inside her head," John starts, "she could have concussion."

"We won't know until she wakes up."

"She needs an x-ray, Sherlock, she needs medical attention and she needs it fast."

Sherlock ignores him and strides over to the door, wiping the icing off his face as he does so. He licks it off a long index finger before saying,

"Call me when she wakes. Phone Lestrade. I have things I need to do."

"What, that's it?" John spits walking up to Sherlock and stepping into his personal space, "_that's it_?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies, "what else would you have me do? I believe my assistance is needed elsewhere and I have better things to do than watch a girl sleep on our sofa. _You _are the doctor here John; this one is over to you. I believe I have some chocolate cupcakes that need attending to, so if you'd please..."

He leaves, side steps around the smaller man, who is left to watch all 6ft of his slender frame disappearing down the stairs. John kicks out savagely at the wall.

"Hey, hey," Sarah says, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him back towards his chair, "you need to relax. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he tells her honestly, "face hurts a bit, but that's to be expected… he had a decent right hook."

She gives him a small smile- a small, sad smile and he returns it because he knows what that means: that this is the end of them, the beginning of the end and while they may remain friends, the chance for anything more is gone.

-x-

Lights. Flickering: on. Off. On. Off. On, off, on, off onoffonoffonoffoffonofnoffnon…

It hurts. The light, the darkness, it's nauseating and the sickness is building up and up and up…

And then it's gone but there are voices now, talking, talking to her and there is unpleasant warmth on her chest and a pounding in her head and she's uncomfortable and sweaty and it _hurts._

It is below her to cry.

_Don't cry _they said to her and she will remember that and she will honour it and she will live by it.

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't…._

But maybe she is dead. Maybe this is death. There is no bright white light, no angels, no pearly gates and she feels cheated because she was promised peace. This isn't peace. This is pure, undiluted pain and it's torture and she can't….

There are hands on her, she can feel them but she can't move and it's a horrible sensation- she feels violated even though these hands are gentle. She can still hear murmured conversation but she doesn't know who these people are.

Her head is burning. Her eyes are burning. Her body is burning. Everything around her is burning and _this has to be the end_ because it is too much.

And still, she does not cry.


	8. FastForward03012011Play

**|FastForward|03012011|Play|**

She returns to consciousness two days later.

The pain in her head is still there, a dull ache that throbs and beats like a pulse and her entire entity is heavy enough to sink to the bottom of the sea.

It is dark, she can tell that much. There is no light worming its way beneath her eyelids and the world is blissfully quiet. It is almost too quiet- almost, and yet not quite. She feels strangely at peace and it is a beautiful feeling. She is so used to the rush of being on the run, the sensation of being watched with every step, always having to take care, take precautions, think of safety… but maybe that is over now. She can't hear the cars and she can't hear the birds in the trees, the morning song of nature as the sun rises and the universe wakes from its sleepy hollow. She had even grown used to the clouds, ever present and smothering, suffocating her as she ran. She is in pitch-blackness, not even being submerged by shadow.

_Maybe I'm not even awake, _she thinks, _maybe I am dead. _

It seems unlikely, but then again, what does she know of death? She has never been one to believe in a higher power; the highest power she knows is her elders and they definitely aren't _here, _wherever she is now. She feels as though this should worry her, sadden her, but it does nothing. She cannot _feel_ anything. Just the scratching of fabric against her skin, the weight of something draped over her: a blanket perhaps? The beating in her head makes itself known and she stifles a whimper of discomfort.

_Pain_ _is in the mind, _they had told her, _so embrace it and __**do not cry. **_

She tries, she does and it is so, so difficult but she focuses on her breathing: in and out, in and out- in through the nose and out through the mouth. Or is it the other way around? She can't remember and there seems to be a mist gliding through her memories; everything appears to be blurred around the edges, never quite clear and she feels lost inside her own head, her own _thoughts_. She hates her body for her betraying her, when her mind is… or used to be so transparent on what she needed to do.

_Stop this. _

She needs to open her eyes, move, and get out.

And so she does.

-x-

Sherlock knows she is awake before she does. The change in breathing, the rapid decline in REM… he can feel the atmosphere shift in the room and he watches and waits as she returns to stage one sleep. He can almost see the high amplitude theta waves emitting from her brain, dancing up the walls and around the room like lasers. He is growing impatient; he has been sitting there for well over an hour now, on strict instructions from John not to move unless it is absolutely vital for him to do so.

He watches her eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. She blinks once, twice- that and the slow rise and fall of her chest are the only inclinations that suggest she is still alive. He says nothing, more interested in watching her than offering any kind of assistance. She hasn't noticed him yet and he takes note of how long it takes her to absorb her surroundings.

_Slow thought processes, delayed movement…_

She realises she isn't alone then, eyes widening as she notices the man sitting in his armchair, hands clasped together, finger tips resting just below his nose.

Sherlock watches as she tries to move, tries desperately to sit up and scurry away, but she lets out a cry of pain and falls back onto her elbows before she has even reached a sitting position.

"Don't try to move," he tells her. Nothing more. She turns her head to look at him once again, slower this time and squints to try and make out anything more than a silhouette in the darkness of the room.

"Who are you?" she rasps out, her voice unsteady due to lack of use.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replies and she is surprised to hear a slight sigh before he speaks, as if he is somewhat bored, "and who are you?"

She does not answer.

"Let me guess," Sherlock says, leaning forward slightly in his chair and for one terrifying moment, she thinks he is going to lunge forward hurt her. He looks almost feline, with a long face and shock of dark hair, ready to pounce at any second. But he doesn't move anymore than that, elbows propped on his knees, hands still pressed together.

"I think you're scared. I think you're in pain."

He spits out the words 'scared' and 'pain' as if they are poison, and she waits for him to continue, mouth too dry to speak or interrupt.

"I think you're uncertain. I think you are unsure of what to make of all this, a strange house, a strange sofa, and a strange man telling you things you already know. You don't need an expert to tell you you're in pain; you can still feel the blow every time you close your eyes. You-"

He jerks his head up at the sound of a door slamming shut and abruptly sinks back into his chair when the sound of footsteps grows louder and closer. The door opens and light streams into the room, making her eyes scream in protest. It is gone as quickly as it comes and suddenly there is another man, this one crouching next to her. He has kind eyes, a sympathetic expression, but he looks older than he is- the faint lines around his eyes are not down to age or anything of that sort; they are down to experience, terrible, dangerous experience that have scarred him and marked him. He doesn't seem haunted by these experiences; simply wiser.

"I am so sorry," the man blurts out, "I didn't realise you were awake, I would have turned the lights off otherwise. Are you okay?"

He has a hand in between her shoulder blades, supporting her. She tries to flinch away from the touch but his hands are strong and she is weak.

"I'm a doctor," he says with a smile, "John Watson. This is Sherlock, don't mind him."

"Oh yes, don't mind me. I'll just sit here in the darkness of my own flat trying to get some work done, do excuse me, I hope the light from my laptop isn't enough to blind you." Sherlock snaps back, crossing one long leg over the other and shrugging his hands out to the side in a dispassionate manner.

"You haven't eaten your lunch have you?" John asks knowingly without looking round and helping her to find a more comfortable position.

"I told you, I don't eat while I'm working."

"It's funny because you're not working," John reminds him before addressing her: "I don't think I got your name."

She hesitates. She doesn't know these people, she doesn't know if they're safe. But she is tired, fragile even and she doesn't have the strength to fight.

"Evie Rose," she tells him.

Nobody notices Sherlock's lips tighten or his eyes narrow. It is only a small movement, but it speaks volumes.

"Evie," he says slowly, "would you like some tea? Or perhaps a cigarette."

"I don't smoke," she replies quickly, too quickly and John is about to let out a crow of triumph when Sherlock says,

"Not in front of anybody, no. How about the tea then?"

She nods and Sherlock says,

"Of course. John, if you'd be so kind as to boil the kettle."

"I-" John starts, before shaking his head. He knows by now that there is no point in arguing with Sherlock.

"Who were the men who attacked you?"

"I don't know."

He narrows his eyes and looks at her, really _looks _and she feels uncomfortable under his gaze; like he is visually stripping her down layer after layer. It is different to the men who would jeer as they walked past her, trying to get an eyeful of the flesh under her clothes; this is _intimate _in a way that she cannot explain. He strips away her clothing with one look, scrutinising every crease and every tear, every speck of dirt and every stain, before going deeper, further. She shivers as his sharp grey (or are they blue? She can't tell in this light) eyes brush over her skin and she feels more exposed than she has done in a while.

"Interesting," Sherlock says, as he finally looks away, "interesting."

She is about to ask _what _is so interesting, when John appears with three mugs of tea.

"Here," he says, after placing two of the mugs next to Sherlock, "this should make you feel slightly more human."

She takes the mug and holds it in her hands, letting the warmth travel up her arms into her shoulders and down the rest of her body.

"Thank you," she says softly, "for all of this."

"Not a problem," John says, taking his place in the armchair opposite Sherlock and taking a careful sip out of his still steaming hot tea, "drink that and then we'll get you washed up. The paramedics had a look at you and cleaned up your wound a bit. Sherlock was right; there was no serious damage, which is why you're here and not in hospital. But I still think we should go and get it checked out."

To Evie's surprise, it is Sherlock who answers.

"Why?"

John turns to face him, confusion apparent on his face.

"What do you mean, 'why'? She was hit over the head with a suitcase Sherlock, I'd feel more at ease if a Doctor had a look at it."

"You're a Doctor?"

"Yes, but-"

"She stays here."

"It isn't your call," John tells him firmly, "it's up to Evie."

Sherlock is looking at her again, piercing eyes cutting straight into hers.

"Well?" he says, as if waiting on an answer of great importance.

She hesitates, hands still cupped around her mug, the smell of sweet tea drifting to meet her nostrils. It's soothing, relaxing- reminds her of home.

"I'll stay here," she says at last, unable to say what aids her decision, "I trust you, Doctor Watson."

The doctor doesn't look incredibly pleased- in fact he scowls at Sherlock before turning back to her with a sigh.

"If you're sure," he says quietly, "but you must tell me if you feel any different, better _or _worse."

She nods and nothing more is said on the matter.

-x-

"Hello, Freak."

"Really Sergeant Donovan, I appreciate pet names as much as the next man but please get some originality. I'm slightly bored of 'Freak.' You might want to look into expanding your vocabulary- Oddity, perhaps. Aberration, Fanatic, Enthusiast all have nice chimes to them don't you think?"

Sally rolls her eyes.

"Can I help you? Or did you just come here to gloat?"

"Gloat? I don't know what you're talking about," he says, "I'm here to see Lestrade."

"He's not in," Sally says smugly, "I'm sure he'll be devastated to hear that he missed you."

"Quite."

Sherlock doesn't wait for a reply, simply turns on the spot and strides back down the corridor, leaving Donovan and Anderson to exchange wry looks and wondering what on earth he could have wanted in the first place.


	9. FastForward05012011Play

**|FastForward|05012011|Play|**

Evie doesn't fully understand how she manages to get through the next couple of days. She seems to be floating, but any positive connotations with the word have vanished along with any sense her life may have once made. Before, she may have associate floating with freedom, or other such pleasantries but now it is something else entirely- a state of limbo, if anything at all.

She feels useless. She spends most of her day sat on the sofa in a flat she does not know, with people she knows even less. John, the Doctor watches her, makes sure she is eating, sleeping, drinking and she hates to admit it, but the care he has given her has made her feel better than she has done in a good few weeks. However the other man, Sherlock seems to loathe everything about her very existence. Yesterday, she had made the mistake of turning on the television, desperate to hear the sound of something other than her own breathing, when the furious man had appeared in the doorway and positively growled,

"Can you turn this off _please_?"

The 'please' that is tacked onto the end sounds like it causes him physical pain to say, and if they had been in any other situation then Evie would have quite happily told him to take his 'please' and shove it-

She had taken a deep breath then, in for two and out for four. She had to remember that she owed these people her life whether she liked it or not, and she was a guest in their home.

She grows restless and can't help but pace around the flat just for something to do. She feels dirty, positively rancid despite the fact she has washed every morning and it is this thought that finally reminds her of the belongings that had been on her person at the time of the attack.

It hits her like a punch to the face, a kick to the stomach and she collapses into the nearest chair before her legs give way.

"Evie?" John asks from his chair, peering at her over the top of his newspaper, "Are you okay?"

"My things," she says, "did anybody find them?"

John's words are lost because she remembers then, the _snap_ of wood, the _twang_ of strings as they recoil back on themselves.

"No," she whispers because this hurts more than the wounds do, the feeling of loss has already manifested into a sickness pooling at the pit of her stomach.

"Evie," John is saying, but Evie can't focus.

"My belongings," she repeats, "did anyone take them?"

John looks at Sherlock who has been slouched over a microscope in the kitchen, but now he stares back at the other man, his expression unreadable.

"Evie..."

She shakes her head.

"It's fine," she says, "it's fine. All... It's all fine."

John sits back, and she can't look at him because she knows she'll find sympathy there, sympathy she doesn't deserve and doesn't want.

"You can use mine."

She looks up to see Sherlock looking at her intently.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says quietly, never breaking eye contact. It is intense- like each is looking into the depths of the other, unveiling secrets and fears with just one look. He has stripped her down, had done the first time he laid eyes on her- she knows this now and narrows her eyes at him; she is only skimming the surface of his character, but there is more, she is sure of it, _so much more._

"Of course," he replies. His voice is low, precise like it is aimed just at her, only for her. Eye contact is only broken when John clears his throat as he stands, tossing his newspaper carelessly aside.

"Food," he says, "I'll go shall I?"

He receives no reply, and Evie would almost feel guilty, if it wasn't for the feeling of Sherlock's gaze still trained on her.

John takes his leave and Evie retreats under the blankets that have been laid out for her on the sofa.

"The offer's still open you know," Sherlock says, long fingers clamping shut over a wheel on the side of the microscope and turning it away from him with exact precision.

She doesn't reply to that certain declarative- instead, she says,

"So what are you working on?"

He still doesn't look up and Evie can't help but wonder if she is anything more than an annoying voice inside his head, butting through the silence he has built around himself, shutting him off from those that surround him. She envies him; it has only been a couple of days, but already she can see things about him. He seems to have the ability to not only be the centre of a crowd, but to appear alone in a crowded room, simply observing everybody else as he blends into the background.

"I highly doubt you would understand," he says, leaning to the side to scribble something down on a notepad beside him.

"Try me," Evie says, the challenge evident in her tone.

Sherlock heaves a great sigh of irritation and says,

"I'm trying to match two sets of DNA samples to see if they are the same. From that I can work out if I'm dealing with one person, two people or maybe more. However this DNA isn't matching to anything- in fact it has hints of genetic makeup that could be from an animal, almost like this person has mixed it into their own fingertips. It's strange and unlikely, but it's also completely possible and if this person has done that to throw us off their scent then they're clever, but also boastful. It also means they knew what they were doing. Most people just wear gloves when they want to be careful, but mixing two sets of DNA together... That's clever, that's _very_ clever. I can't strip away each layer, not here anyway and I need time, but-"

He throws himself backwards in his chair and for a moment Evie thinks he's going to fall, the chair is rocking precariously on it's back two legs, but he stays upright, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Will you play?" he asks her suddenly.

"Play what?"

"Oh don't pretend to be stupid," he snaps, "stupid is boring. Or entertaining, depending on the way you look at it." He rises from his chair. He strides over to the windowsill and picks up his violin; he brandishes the bow at her like a sword.

"Play," he says, "if you're any good, it'll help me to think."

She shakes her head. It's wrong; it feels wrong to play an instrument belonging to another, and someone she has only known for a few days at that. The violin is old; she can see that and well loved. She has always thought that instruments are part of ones soul, the most intimate object that can ever be touched. They are the items that can sing the words that the mouth fails to say, and stranger's hands should never ever tamper with them.

"I can't," she says. Her voice catches somewhere in her throat and she has to cough to clear it. "I can't," she repeats, "I'm sorry."

He takes a few steps towards the sofa and places the violin on the coffee table without a word. Then he retreats back to the kitchen and slumps into his chair, inserting a new slide under the microscope as he does so.

-x-

"To what do I owe the pleasure, dear brother? Or should I say, to whom?"

Sherlock doesn't move, stays exactly where he is with his back against the wall. The sun has long since set and the room is almost as dark as it is outside, the only light source coming from the two, somewhat dull lamps resting by the two armchairs. Mycroft doesn't seem at all surprised to see him. He hadn't even flinched when he had entered through the door, umbrella and brief case in hand to find his younger brother skulking around the edges of the room.

"Oh do come out from the shadows Sherlock, this hide and seek game of yours is all very tedious."

Sherlock steps out into the light; his head held high, mouth set in a firm line.

"I do not _hide_, Mycroft."

"Of course," Mycroft replies with a slight nod of his head, "you only seek."

Sherlock quirks his lips into a half smile:

"Something like that."

"I understand this is a one off," Mycroft tells him, pouring two drinks from the tray that never leaves its place by the desk, "I won't expect these visits to become a regular occurrence."

"You've never expected anything of me, good or bad," Sherlock replies haughtily. Mycroft tenses; his brother sounds nonplussed, like he couldn't bring himself to care even if he wanted to, but Mycroft can hear the bite of hurt under the initial stab of the words.

"Well?" Mycroft says, handing out one of the delicate glasses, "do you want to sit?"

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder but takes the glass in a steady hand, before staring at the amber liquid within.

"You know why I'm here," he says finally; voice deep and level, "I don't want to waste anymore of my time than is strictly necessary."

"Do I?" Mycroft says, with a raised eyebrow, "honestly Sherlock, will this high and mighty facade of yours ever fall?"

"Only when yours does," Sherlock retorts, face still poker straight. He says nothing more, simply stares at his brother before Mycroft caves and heaves a laboured sigh.

"The girl." Mycroft says, sitting in one of the armchairs and gesturing for Sherlock to do the same.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Sherlock says, taking his seat opposite his brother, "do you _honestly_ think I wouldn't notice?"

"Dear, _dear_ Sherlock no," Mycroft says, "I know that isn't the case."

"I know who she is," Sherlock snaps, "the indents on her fingers, the-"

"You do not need to explain your deductions to me," Mycroft tells him, "I am of your blood, don't forget."

He offers Sherlock a small smile then, a slight upturn of the mouth and nothing more.

"This has your name written all over it," Sherlock snaps, "I know they were your men who attacked her. The mix of DNA was far too clever for anyone else and the wound to the head; that would take practice, training in order not to leave any lasting or serious damage. It just needed to be enough to scare her, confuse her-"

"I only did what was necessary, Sherlock."

Sherlock is angry. His nostrils are flared, everything about him is tense and Mycroft is certain that if he grips anymore on his glass then the object will smash into smithereens in his fist.

"I don't expect you to understand," Mycroft tells him gently, "I just ask that you allow her to stay in your home."

Sherlock stares at his brother, white faced with fury, teeth grinding together with a vengeance.

"They'll get her, Sherlock," Mycroft says, "they'll be after her and she needs protection."

"You are the British Government- you have the police at your beck and call, why choose me over them?"

Mycroft's eyes meet with Sherlock's, but neither of them says a single word. Mycroft's unspoken, "_because I trust you,_" hangs heavily in the air, a phrase that will not be uttered by either Holmes sibling as long as they live. Mycroft knows that Sherlock wants to hear him say it, but he cannot bring himself to utter the words his brother needs to hear most.

"I owe it to... An old friend," he says instead, "it was a promise."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and knocks back the remainder of his drink, shuddering as it burns a raw pathway down his throat.

"Promises," he growls, "how very _human_ of you Mycroft."

Mycroft ignores him and stands, fetching a large parcel from behind his desk. Sherlock has also gotten to his feet, hating being lower than his brother even for a second. He stares at the package as Mycroft pushes it into his hands.

"It's-" Sherlock starts, but his brother cuts across him.

"I know what it is."

Sherlock nods.

"And I assume you want me to give this to her."

"Whenever you think the time is right, dear brother. I shall leave that up to you."

And that is that; with one last sceptical look at the older man, Sherlock turns on the spot and walks purposefully out of the room, clasping the package tightly to his chest.


	10. FastForward16012011Play

|FastForward|16012011|Play|

"There's been another one," Lestrade says just over a week later. He sounds perfectly calm, if a little tired, but Sherlock can see straight through him.

"And you think it's linked?" he asks, as Lestrade pushes the door to his office closed with the ball of his foot before moving to take his seat behind his desk, facing Sherlock with a dramatic sigh.

"Definitely looks that way. Ian Finn. Friend of the Deighton's- in fact I believe that he was the god father of the daughter, who we still haven't found by the way- have you heard anything?"

"Finn... The conductor?" Sherlock presses, cocking his head slightly to peer at the man sitting opposite him.

"Yes," Lestrade answers, forgetting the second part of his question, "Wrote a few pieces with Deighton I think. We just need to find out what this family have done to piss off whoever is killing them all."

Sherlock leans back in his chair, crosses one long leg over the other. "Can I see?" he asks, not looking straight at the Detective Inspector, but rather at the corner of his desk, "The crime scene. Can I see it?"

Lestrade nods, runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm going back up there this afternoon," he says, his tone indicating that he would really rather not, "but I'm warning you- it's fairly gruesome." He pulls out an A4 envelope and opens up the top, withdrawing several photographs from within. He hands them to Sherlock with a grim expression, leaning back to take a sip of his coffee as the other man takes it upon himself to flick through the images.

Blood stains the carpets, splatters the walls, drips in scarlet rivulets from the desk. The place has been ransacked, destroyed; lights have shattered, various documents litter the floor and the piano- the piano has been butchered. Keys have been hurled across the room, the wooden frame has been splintered, destroyed. Strings and hammers erupt from the broken frame, spewing the contents onto the floor. Sherlock flicks to the next one, not a single hint of how he might be feeling upon his face.

"Hm," Lestrade says, his tone sounding slightly guarded, "the grand piano. That's where he was found, the poor bugger."

Sherlock squints and brings the photograph closer to his face, trying to take in as much detail as he can. It looks like something out of a poorly fashioned horror film; one that spends the entirety of its' budget on special effects that have no other purpose but to aid the visual impact of the murders, often taking the blood and gore too far and adding a vaguely humorous effect to the scene. But there is nothing humorous about this particular photograph. The lid of the spectacular piano is open, and inside- inside, is a body: Ian Finn. His head is tipped back in an unnatural and grotesque way, blood trickles from the corner of his mouth; broken neck, Sherlock concludes with a glance.

"Probably choked on his own blood," he murmurs, running a finger over the image, "repulsive. But also... Interesting."

"Interesting?" Lestrade exclaims, looking vaguely sick.

"Hm..." Sherlock replies, tossing the photographs back onto the desk, not bothering to look at the others, "look at how much effort has gone into that, Lestrade. They didn't just kill him and leave, like they did to the others. It's like art." His eyes flicker back to the photographs momentarily, before darting back to the Detective Inspector. "That is, of course assuming we are dealing with the same people." He stands abruptly, the backs of his knees sending his chair back on its hind legs. "Forensics will tell us that."

"Art." Lesteade mutters, "art... Bloody... You're bloody insane, you know that?"

Sherlock simply raises an eyebrow, bringing his fingertips to his upper lip in thought. "I need to see the crime scene. The blood that's on the keys-" here, he points back to the second photograph, "is it his? Who put it there? The killers? Or was our victim here playing a last concerto, a last farewell to his work and his life." He narrows his eyes in concentration before continuing, "well… I guess in many ways, his work was his life… look at this piano, Lestrade. Look at it."

He snatches up the items, turns the photograph, holds it gently in his fingertips as he shows it to the other man:

"What about it?" Lestrade asks dully, staring at the image, still looking completely horrified, "it's a piano. With… a dead man inside it. Jesus, Sherlock, put it down."

Sherlock doesn't quite place it down on the desk, but he turns it back around, bringing it close to his face. "Old…" he murmurs, almost to himself, "very, _incredibly _old. He was one of the best in his field, he wouldn't just settle for something… ordinary. This piano has seen years beyond our imagination, Lestrade. Ancient, antique… probably worth hundreds and hundreds of thousands of pounds. Yet it remains… almost untouched."

Lestrade snorts; "there's a bloody great body sticking out of it, Sherlock!" he exclaims, "I wouldn't quite call that untouched…"

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"But _look _at it!" he says, voice rising with frustration, "_Look at it! _The frame hasn't been touched, there isn't a scratch on the wood-" Here, he pulls out the previous picture, flings them both onto the desk before them, "look. Look at the difference between the two. One piano- completely smashed to pieces, and the other… not."

He watches as Lestrade frowns- "what do you think it means then?" he asks, looking away from the images to stare at Sherlock, eyebrows raised and questioning.

"Absolutely no idea."

Lestrade glares at him for a moment, before gathering up the images and shoving them back into the envelope, away and out of sight.

"You're bloody creepy," he mutters, "you know that?"

"I like to call it 'thinking outside the box,'" Sherlock responds, "or being mildly intelligent. Good day, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Text me the details of the crime scene- location, time and all that."

He snaps into action, turning on his heel and striding to the door.

"What?" Lestrade asks in complete disbelief, "you're just going to leave? Just like that?"

Sherlock pauses, hand on the door handle.

"Yes." he responds simply, "I have no doubt you shall text me if you need anything."

-x-

John has always considered himself… at least 80% successful with the ladies. He likes to think himself as _slightly _witty, if not a 'bit less than extremely' witty and is never short of a story to tell. What with fighting in the army and living with Sherlock Holmes for God knows how long- (a lie, of course. He knows exactly when he moved in with the other man, even if he denies it until his dying day-) has been of at least some use.

But talking to Evie… it is like talking to a bloody brick wall. He has exhausted every single socially acceptable conversation starter- and some that aren't so acceptable- and has even cracked out the old, '_dreary weather, isn't it?' _

Nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing. All he gets in return for his valiant attempts at civilized conversation is a slight nod, or, if he's _really _lucky, a 'hm.' He is this close to pulling out the '_I saved you from a God damn mob!' _when Sherlock comes barging through the door.

He ignores Evie completely, or at least doesn't acknowledge her, and turns to John. "Another one," he says, "there's been another one."


	11. FastForward18012011Play

**|FastForward|18012011|Play|  
><strong>  
>The first time she goes missing, John turns up at St. Bart's in an absolute frenzy; a flurry of Winter breeze and well worn dark jacket.<p>

"She's gone, Sherlock," he exclaims, breath coming in short, panicked gasps- the result of a short run when traffic was being simply too slow for his flustered state.

Of course, Sherlock does not respond; simply sits completely stationary, safety goggles perched precariously on the end of his nose.

"Sherlock!" John repeats leaning slumped against the doorframe, "Sherlock. _Listen_ to me." He straightens, takes two determined steps into the room- "She's gone. She's missing."

Sherlock looks up with a laboured sigh and removes his safety goggles with an irritated noise of displeasure.

"No."

John braces his weight on his hands, palms flat against the table as he leans forward, closer to the other man as if this will somehow help him get his point across.

"Are you even listening to me? She's gone. Vanished. She isn't anywhere in the flat, she isn't with Mrs. Hudson..."

"And so you simply assume that she's missing? Interesting." Sherlock clicks his tongue between his teeth as he tugs off the thin, translucent gloves that he has been wearing upon his hands, a quizzical expression finding its way onto his face. "I don't doubt that you have a perfectly sound explanation for your choices," Sherlock continues, "but tell me this: every time you or I are away from Baker Street, are we missing?"

John shakes his head in disbelief. "You aren't listening," he snaps, becoming more and more agitated by the second, "You aren't listening to me. She's missing. She's gone. There were people out to get her, Sherlock, and we were supposed to be keeping her safe!"

Sherlock breathes in, the air passing by his clenched teeth with a sound that vaguely resembles a whistle as he looks at his flatmate wearily. He had told John of Mycroft's request, but had not told him the details; had simply gone to him with hushed tones and half explanations and John had not pressed on the matter.

"Indeed," he says now, "Safe. You try and keep me safe and yet you don't coddle me; the two are very different things."

John sits down with an exasperated sigh, his hands coming up to rub at his face.

"We don't even know who she is," he mutters, "what's going on? No-" he continues as the other man goes to cut across him, "no, _seriously_, Sherlock. What the hell is going on?"

Sherlock looks at John properly for the first time since he has entered the room and gives him an infuriating smile: the vaguely smug, knowing smile that drives John to the edge of distraction. The former stands and buttons up the button on his jacket, before going to fetch his coat and scarf from where they hang on the back of a discarded chair.

"Leave this to me," he says, "go home and get everything ready for our return."

John looks up, confusion evident in his expression.

"You know where she is?"

Sherlock smirks.

"I have a fairly good idea, yes."

-x-

He finds her not an hour later: he sees her far before she notices him and he takes a moment to watch her before approaching.

The skies are a miserable grey, the clouds merging together to form a humongous mass of nothingness. She sits under a spindly tree, the branches reaching down and around her in a way that is almost skeletal comfort. She sits alone, cross-legged, back propped up against the gnarly bark of the trunk. She sits in the gravel and the soil, out of sight from the majority of people who were to pass through.

But he is not the majority of people and so of course, he sees her almost at once. He takes his time in approaching her, stepping carefully and almost silently across the ground between them.

"I'm not hiding."

Sherlock is neither ashamed nor afraid to admit that he is surprised when she speaks first, even though she hasn't yet turned to look at him. He simply shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and shrugs one shoulder.

"Never said you were."

She nods, but says nothing more and so Sherlock bends his knees to squat down beside her. Evie casts her gaze towards the floor and a single tear drops from one eye.

"Sadness," Sherlock comments offhandedly, "commonly, if one cries from the right eye first, it indicates sadness. But if the first tear falls from the left eye, then more often than not, they are tears of happiness."

"What reason do I have to be sad?" Evie snaps, swiping angrily at her eyes.

"You tell me," Sherlock murmurs, "you. tell. me." He cocks his head to the side and looks at her intently; each word is punctuated and yet his voice has lost the usual harshness it carries whilst talking to her. She says nothing at all, but shudders under the intensity of his gaze, feeling uncomfortably exposed as she always, always does. He narrows his eyes and in that moment, she knows that she will never be able to hide anything from him; she is an open book, with her thoughts and opinions printed across her face for him to read and judge and she hates him- _despises _him for it.

"Well..." he says, finally moving to sit down beside her, "if my parents had died the gruesome way yours did and if my Godfather had been found slaughtered inside the piano he loved and cherished and if I had been on the run ever since then I would probably feel... 'sad' as well." he spits out the word as if it is poison on his tongue, "I would say you had plenty of reasons to be sad, Evelyn Deighton."

They sit in silence for several, long seconds as Evelyn tries desperately to gather her wits and get over the fact that he—oh, but of course he did. Of course he _knew_. What was it that she had been thinking only a few seconds ago? She will never be able to hide anything from him. She lifts her head to stare at him, to try and decipher something, _anything _about his mysterious form, this _man _that cannot be a man. And yet there is nothing. His stoic expression, his harsh words and the indifferent air that always surrounds him offers nothing to indicate how he may be feeling. She briefly wonders if he _does _feel, or if feelings are nothing but a foreign concept.

"How long have you known?" she asks him, averting her eyes and instead fixing her gaze upon a patch of soil. It is darker than the rests, stained black by the water that has dripped from a branch of the spindly tree, turned thick where wood touches ground.

"Well, I've known something was amiss since the start," he tells her, "but your fingers…" he takes her wrist in his hand and gently turns it over in his grasp, gentle touches forcing her fingers to relax. "The slight indents at the tips of your fingers on the left hand…" he holds out his own and spreads out the digits so that they represent hers. "I have them as well. The tiny horizontal lines at our fingertips from pressing down the strings of a violin just that little bit too hard. After so many years of playing, they never quite go away. That part of the hand is always rather tender to the touch… you can always feel your last tune… the last symphony…" he trails off, looking for a reaction from the other. She is staring straight ahead, eye fixed on something non-existent.

"They're dead," she finally murmurs, as if it has only just hit her, "they're… dead."

And without looking at him, or anybody else, Evelyn Deighton finally shakes the pretence of 'being brave' and begins to cry.


End file.
